The Fall of Tom Riddle
by queen-sheep
Summary: Tom Riddle's spirit escapes to the confines of Albania, and there, he waits.


_Written for the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition - Season 2 - Round 7_

* * *

_Patience_, Voldemort tells himself.

He stands in front of the humble house, eyeing the lights in the windows that wash the sidewalk in warmth. The edges of his mouth curl up, widening until a handsome smirk graces his face. There's nothing but triumph to be found in that face – pure, unaltered triumph. Voldemort tilts his head back and draws in a breath of clear air, holding it in for a moment, savouring it.

Then, he breathes out.

He draws his wand out with a flourish. Eyes intent on the house, he strides forward. The lock is taken down with an elementary unlocking spell. _Foolish, _he sneers. He can hear them, the Potters, coming out into the hallway, and the killing spell rolls from his mouth.

It's almost too easy.

James Potter goes down instantly, and he leisurely makes his way up the stairs to where Lily Potter is. There's no need to rush. He has them cornered, and nothing they do can change that fact. He steps onto the second floor, and, hearing heavy breathing and low murmuring from the first door on the left, promptly heads there.

He pushes the door open, and is met with steely green eyes. She's huddled over the cradle that contains _that boy_, glowering at him over the top of it.

Voldemort scoffs. He doesn't know what Severus sees in her, but he'll respect this request.

"Step aside," he says.

She refuses. He sighs. With a flick of his wand and an _Avada Kedavra_, she's dead, and he's in front of the boy. The young Harry Potter gurgles at him, unaware of the happenings around him.

"Avada Kedavra," he says viciously, watching the green light shoot towards the boy.

But it doesn't hit.

And it doesn't kill.

(Not quite.)

And in that moment, everything changes.

-X-

Voldemort remembers dreaming. In a state where he isn't alive, but still exists, he drifts and he dreams. It's not a regular dream though – if it was, he could wake up from this nightmare. But he doesn't. His dream is his reality and he can't escape.

He knows, vaguely, that he can still move. He can still plot, and he can still think, but right now, he's too tired.

Later, he thinks. I can wait.

So Voldemort continues dreaming and drifting, waiting for his rebirth.

It's a while before he wakes up, and when he does, he can /feel/ again.

Anger is the first thing that breaks through. It jolts him from his dreams, sending prickles through his existence. For the first few days, he can feel nothing but the heat of his rage washing through him.

And then, he begins to plot.

It's by no chance that he lures Quirrell where he can speak to him. He's the perfect candidate, Voldemort thinks with barely restrained glee. A professor at Hogwarts and weak willed as well. Dumbledore was growing lax in all the years of peace. So he speaks directly into the other's head, watching as greed flickers across his face.

And just like that, Voldemort possess him. It's almost too easy.

But his face is not his own. It's changed, to something more inhuman. Voldemort likes this one better; it proves his dominance to the Wizarding population.

"During this school year," Quirrell tells him, glowing, "Dumbledore will be protecting the philosopher's stone inside of Hogwart's walls."

"Excellent," Voldemort says. This is his chance. Although he was thwarted once, he'll be invincible with immortality. "Whatever that old fool concocts can't be too lethal. He's too soft for that."

It's an easy victory.

Quirrell seems to hesitate before saying something else. Voldemort frowns.

"Well? Speak."

"Yes, my Lord," Quirrell responds instantly. "It's just, well, Harry Potter is attending Hogwarts this year as well."

"Harry Potter," Voldemort says slowly. His eyes narrow.

"_Harry Potter_," he hisses. Then the rage is back again, and Quirrell starts screaming.

The sound resounds splendidly in his ear, but he slowly lets his anger burn down to a simmer. Quirrell falls to his knees at the release, panting and whimpering. It's pathetic, but he can't have his host die before he achieves immortality.

-X-

He fails. _Again._ He was so close, and the philosopher's stone was stolen from him by an eleven year old.

Voldemort's fury smolders under a thin layer of control. He is, once more, bodiless, drifting along in the world. But this time is different. This time, he doesn't dream. He grounds himself in Albania, waiting for the next chance to pass him by. And while he waits, all he can see is that bright green gaze, steady and powerful, and it only infuriates him more. He had been willing to spare the Potter boy, but no more.

Harry Potter is going to die the next time I see him, he vows.

And then, to his delight, his chance comes scurrying along on a dirty little rat. A very familiar rat.

Peter Pettigrew.

He looks around anxiously, and Voldemort takes the chance to whisper in his mind. He whispers of betrayal and cowardice, and that's all it takes for Pettigrew to stammer out his loyalty to him again.

But Voldemort is still bodiless. So he orders Pettigrew to build him a rudimentary body, before he can gain another true form. He's weaker than ever in this state, and that only makes the anger burn brighter and hotter.

It's disgusting, having to rely on weaklings to keep himself alive.

But the Triwizard Tournament was coming up that year, and he could finally rebirth in a new body. His plan came into action with ease. He counted down the days until he could see Harry Potter's face, contorted in pain, in death.

He wondered just how the boy would feel, knowing he would contribute to Voldemort's rise to power.

It's almost too easy.


End file.
